The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
Algernon Charles SwinburneThere is no such thing as a dumb poet or a handless painter. The essence of an artist is that he should be articulate.
Algernon Charles SwinburneBut now, you are twain, you are cloven apart Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart.
Algernon Charles SwinburneShe knows not loves that kissed her She knows not where. Art thou the ghost, my sister, White sister there, Am I the ghost, who knows? My hand, a fallen rose, Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care.
Algernon Charles Swinburne